


Missed (it's your fault that I changed)

by antheeia



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: Avileroweek, Drabble, Hallucinations, Introspection, M/M, POV First Person, Prompt Fill, Revenge, a small and slightly graphic description of violence, just my typical annoyingly sappy introspection, which is the only reason for the teen rating tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 05:38:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10550984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antheeia/pseuds/antheeia
Summary: We were always meant to go down with each other’s blood on our hands, and all the love in the world, all the hate you can feel, all the determination, the hope, the stubbornness, the kindness — they are nothing in the face of fate.Another drabble for avileroweek, day 3, "Change".





	

**Author's Note:**

> I kinda like this one better than yesterday's drabble.

There’s just one single thought going through my mind.

As everything that mattered in your life goes up in a swirl of smoke, as the smell of blood fills my nostrils — and I can’t tell apart the stench of the blood that’s splattered all around on the floor, on the curtains, from the bittersweet odor of my own blood drenching my suit — the one we bought together, do you remember? — as everything is finally coming to an end and I feel like I just managed to pull off the last herculean task of my life, the only thing I can think of is that this must look like a nightmare to you. To you, this probably looks like I just flicked a switch and changed into a demon, like I just turned your life from heaven to hell. And yet it's not like that, Nero. I didn't change from a moment to the next and neither did your life. Everything has been leading to this since the beginning, since we first met, since I got that letter, or maybe since you and your family killed my own.

You could have stopped me and this desperate revenge I have been seeking my whole life — and, maybe, I would have let you, maybe you could have charmed me into letting go, into forgiving — but now you can’t; you had so much power over me, but now everything is done and I am the one in control. It's incredible how many things can be changed just by pulling a trigger, just by firing a shot. It just took three bullets to kill my family that night; but, tonight, it took just one to destroy everything you father built.

And it's all your fault, Nero: I blame you for that shot you fired at me, seven years ago, because you missed, and I blame you for all the shots you never fired, all the occasions you had for killing me, for putting an end to this, because you missed those too. I blame you for being such a fool, for trusting me through every single day we were together, your unwavering faith almost religious. You were so blind, so convinced of my good intentions, seduced by the illusion of me you yourself created.

 _Did you love me, Nero?_ Weren’t you in love with just the idea of me? Do you still love me now that you had a taste of how deep the roots of darkness have grown into my soul? Now that you know me for real, would you still take a bullet for me, Nero? Would you die, if I asked you to? The body count is almost complete, and now that everyone is gone we’re the only ones missing: two dead men walking.

And I pity you, Nero, because you never realized, you never fully knew until tonight the extent of our bond, of our curse, the shared sentence paving our way straight to hell. I pity you because you didn’t have a say in this just like I didn’t; and if you ever thought that we’re all makers of our own future, think again: we never had this chance, me and you. We were always meant to go down with each other’s blood on our hands, and all the love in the world, all the hate you can feel, all the determination, the hope, the stubbornness, the kindness — they are nothing in the face of fate. And I pity you because at least I knew that because I never deluded myself into thinking that I could live on, that not all was lost, that I could have a future.

_But you did._

And as I walk away from that building that now looks more like a mass grave — the place in which I buried all the days that we could still live, all the pages that you could write, everything that you could have been, that I could have been, that we could have had together, my determination and your hope, my emptiness and your feelings — I think that, tonight, I took everything away from you but your life; I let go of everything but my feelings for you, and I can’t forgive myself. I can't because I betrayed myself when I walked away without killing you because I changed my plans for you; and I can't because I betrayed you, and even if it was planned from the start, I never thought it would feel so awful.

I walk away from the place where both our lives should have ended, I wonder how different our dying wishes would be.

_As long as we’re both still breathing, what would you wish for?_

I’d want nothing special: a day on the road with you, a day like any other, just us together, like nothing ever happened, before you finally ended my life. And, believe me, Nero, I hate myself for this — but I can’t help how I feel at peace, whole, calm when you’re by my side, I can’t help how easily the simple fact that your heart is beating so close to mine erases my worries for a moment, just enough time to blink; that’s so small, so meager, but it’s the closest to Heaven that I’ll ever get. And in this moment, it's the only thing I miss.

If I know you good enough, you’d wish for the only thing you can never have: a peaceful life, a clean conscience, your friends’ life back, me by your side.

And yet, are those wishes really so different? Aren’t both of them just a different way of wanting the same thing, just a desperate desire to finally _stop this pain_?

“When we work together, I feel like we can defeat whatever stands in our way,” you told me once. Maybe you didn’t even know I was listening, you were playing with my hair while I pretended to sleep because I didn't want to show how ashamed I felt to be sharing that bed with you of all people. And in that moment, just for a second, I wished we really could destroy everything standing in our way without destroying ourselves. I wished for that — that’s what I hate the most about you, the fact that you make me _so weak_ — and I wished so hard I felt my heart breaking when facing the awareness that the only way we could end up together was in a pool of blood.

And this overwhelming dread that I feel now — while I slide to the ground of this street, leaving a trace of blood on the wall — it’s all your fault, Nero. Because I don’t feel accomplished, I’m not happy; and I deserved at least that, Nero. I deserved to feel better after this revenge, I deserved a moment of peace before I died — before we both died. But you showed me what happiness tastes like, you showed me how wonderful it is to be loved and to love back, and even though I know I can never have that, the relief I feel now is nothing compared to it. If I could die between your arms — you holding me while you breathe your last, your finger on the barrel of the gun that took my life, your hands dripping with the blood gushing out of our wounds, your voice would sound like a sad melody singing me to sleep — that would be a true relief. _Peace. Our happy ending._ And in those rare moments when I realise the absurdity of my thoughts, I can't help but notice how my mind just went from obsessing about revenge to obsessing about you.

I still see him, you know? Corteo. He is following me, stalking me, judging me as if in death he became the part of my conscience he never managed to be in life.

And he makes me notice all these things: he pointed out how I changed my priorities, my plans, my thoughts, my aspirations, even the way I smiled, and all because of you.

I just wish he would shut up. I just wish he stopped acting like he knew anything about what I think and what I want, but the truth is that deep down I know he’s just a product of my mind, just the child of my guilt and my conflict, taking form to tell me all the things that I don't wanna hear, all the things that I don't want to admit to myself.

“Corteo... I did it,” I tell him. And a strangled laugh comes out because it’s so funny that it ended up being like this. It’s so funny I’m telling this to him of all people. The real Corteo never really approved of my revenge, but this one scowls at me like he’s not satisfied, like he wants me to admit that this is not what I had planned, like death made him thirsty for blood.

But _I’m so tired_ , too tired to convince him, or myself, or both of us, that the person I was three months ago would approve of this, that what I achieved is good enough. Even if he might make me feel guilty about what I feel for you, Nero, even if I know, I always knew, falling in love with you was the most stupid thing I could ever do, I still took my revenge. I did it.

My sight clouds over, and see him walking away. I hope that my parents’ and my brother’s souls will now finally find peace; I hope he does too.

My last thought before losing consciousness, however, is directed at you: I wonder if our souls, too, are destined to find peace someday. Together.


End file.
